


The Red Bandana

by Moonlark



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Injury, Lost in Woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paulie and Nealer get lost in the woods after a bad car crash. Not everything goes well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

     The high noon sun shone down on the new leaves, casting dappled green shadows across the rich, dark loam below. Budding branches, covered with the light lime of a spring come, tickled each other gently, and the long tendrils of vines waved lazily in the warm wind. A timid crocus raised its head, daring to bear its velvet violet petals.

     Sunlight glimmered off the rippling surface of a babbling brook nearby. The stream laughed in a singsong voice that twined around the trees and wound across the moist earth. Water splashed up on moss covered rocks, lapping and licking at the damp grass overhanging the banks. The creek was nearly overflowing with frigid water from the snowmelt upstream. A small fish darted out from a shaded pool, the bright sun glinting off its scales like a spotlight on a diamond ring. Up in the trees, a squirrel chattered, scolding the gently rustling leaves. A quiet background melody of birdsong floated softly through the dappled sunlight, and a warm spring breeze enveloped the peaceful woodland.

     The man lay on his side in the damp leaf litter, fast asleep. His jeans were ripped from mid-thigh to knee on his left leg, and there was a hole near the cuff on the right leg where the fabric had been seared away. The flesh underneath was an ugly red, a bloody burn that had started to fester. A grimy gray shirt that had once been white was wrapped around his left forearm. Flecks of blood dotted the shirt. The arm, covered with tattoos, was held close to his side, twisted at an unnatural angle. There was dirt caked under his fingernails, and his skin was gritty. The flush of sunburn was beginning to play its cards across his light skin. A soft breeze ruffled his black hair, teasing a few dark strands across his face, where it lifted, in, out, in, out, stirred endlessly by his steady breathing.

     Next to him, sitting propped up against a small boulder, was another man. He was fair-skinned as well, but with hair a mix of red, blond, and muted, mottled brass, shorter cut than the first man, but still matted and tangled. Sunburn had already caught him. Dried blood crusted around a gash in his forehead, trailing off in crackling dirt-red streaks down past his eye and across his cheek. A rent in his shirt parted to reveal a long, narrow slash down the back of his ribs. He sat with one eye cracked open, watching over his friend’s slumber. As he dozed, he absentmindedly wound and unwound a cloth–a red bandana–from around his left hand. At times, the hand itself was visible, a white flash against a red and beige background: a broken bone, shattered, the sharp, jagged end poking through the skin on the back of his hand.

     Both men’s faces had the long, lined, drawn out look of one who cannot sleep soundly for the nightmares.

     The cry of a falcon startled the brass-haired one, and he jerked upright, on full alert. He scrambled to his feet, taking care to avoid using his injured hand. He looked around nervously, before realizing what the noise was.

     “Nothing,” he muttered uncertainly. “Just a bird…”

     The black-haired one slept on.

     The brass-haired one knelt down by the stream and splashed a handful of water on his face. He then scooped up another handful and drank that, quenching his thirst and wetting his parched mouth. Now and again he glanced over at his sleeping companion, making sure that his chest still rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

     The black-haired one’s breath still stirred the strands drooping across his face.

     The brass haired one glanced around once more, and then discarded his shoes and sat down at the edge of the stream, slipping his bare left foot into the freezing water, flinching as the cold liquid ran between his toes. The chill soothed his swollen ankle, taking the place of ice. He stayed there until he could no longer feel the pain, and then drew his foot out and let it dry in the sun.

     They had been in the woods for three days already, and today was easily the warmest. The other days had been chill, warming to a passive non-temperature in the afternoon, and dipping into a dark low at night. The two men had shivered through it, huddling together, as out of the wind as they could get, trying but unable to get a fire going. Clouds had hung in the sky for days, and the nights were no star nights.

     Both men were glad for the sun. Even if it burned them, it was better than another day of biting winds and sharp, frosty air.

     The black-haired one rolled over, then sat up, blinking sleep away with bleary eyes. He seemed to have a slight trouble discerning where he was, before realizing that he was still in the woods.

     He clambered to his feet, and the brass haired one slipped his shoes back on and likewise rose.

     “Should we get going?”

     “Which way?”

     After a brief pause, the brass-haired one hesitantly said, “Downstream? I mean, we go downstream, we’re bound to find civilization sometime.”

 _Yes_ , he thought, _but will that sometime be soon enough?_

     But the black-haired one only nodded and began to walk. They soon fell into a step next to each other, a rhythm that both of them heard but neither discussed.

     Both men walked with a slight limp. The brass-haired one was beginning to be troubled by his injured ankle again, and the black-haired one was trying to ignore the pain from the burn on his leg. Both knew, however, that they needed to keep moving if they wanted to survive.

     After a while, the black-haired one glanced over at his companion.

     “Paulie…” he said quietly.

     The brass-haired one--Paulie-–looked up from the ground. “What?”

     “I… I miss the team.”

     “I do too… I miss having a roof over my head.”

     “I miss being warm.”

     “I miss showers, and being clean.”

     “I miss your scrambled eggs.”

     Paulie smiled. “Okay, Nealer, when we get back I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

     “Or–no!” James’s eyes lit up. “When we get back, we’re going to every single restaurant in Pittsburgh! I’m hungry enough… so I’d want to do that… when we get back…” he finished lamely.

     “When we get back,” Paulie repeated, but the words had lost their luster.

     Silence fell over the two again.


	2. II

     Hunger gnawed at the edge of Paulie’s consciousness. His stomach had long since fallen quiet, having exhausted its protests and demands for food. All he’d eaten in three days had been that small mound of dandelion greens and half of the small fish James had snagged. Now, as he walked, his thoughts turned toward the varieties of food that he’d enjoyed back in his old life. He had eaten out fairly often, and cooked more. A running list of his favorite meals was scrolling through his head, pictures and all. He knew James was going through the same torment, if not worse.

     Behind the gnawing veil of hunger, another agony awaited. The pain in his ankle had returned fully, and  his limp became more pronounced with every step he took. His hand throbbed, and he fidgeted, wrapping, unwrapping, and rewrapping the bandana around it. His forehead stung, and the gash down his back was aching dully. His mouth was parched, and when they stopped, he knelt by the stream and drank deeply.

     As the sun set, the temperature dropped. The two stopped walking, looking for a good place to spend the night. Some primeval urge told them not to keep walking in the dark. They gathered wood and went through the pre-sleep ritual of attempting to light a fire. After failing once more, they gave up and huddled together under a rough rock ledge, pressing into each other in a futile attempt to ward off the dark, cold night.

     Both men fell asleep not long after darkness fell.

     As Paulie slept, he dreamed. 

     A car. A blue pick-up truck, as well. A collision, loud and too bright. Going off the road, landing upside down on a boulder, the screech of metal as the roof buckled, a burst of pain as the door broke off and jagged metal ripped down his back. A brief stint of blackness as his head hit the steering wheel.

     Paulie woke suddenly, trying to forget the dream. He’d lived through it once. He didn’t want to live it every night all over again. 

     James was awake next to him, staring at something out in the darkness. He held a finger to his lips and pointed. 

     Paulie followed his gaze. 

     There, across the stream from them, a huge silhouette was pawing through the leaf litter. It gave a couple of rough grunting chuffs and a strange, deep snort. Two more silhouettes, small fluffy ones, scampered out of the woods to join it. The two small creatures tumbled about, roughhousing, until the big one chuffed once more and the three shadowy shapes disappeared into the woods.

     James let out the breath he’d been holding. “Bear,” he murmured.

     “A mother with cubs,” Paulie whispered back. If she’d smelled us, we’d be dead meat, he thought. 

     Neither man was able to get any more sleep that night.


	3. III

     The next day dawned with mist in the air. Fog twined through the trees, wrapping narrow tendrils around the skinny branches. The wind had a distinct bite in it, a chill that the men could not avoid. The air was saturated with moisture, and Paulie shivered as he watched his breath bead in front of him. His shirt was wet, soaked through from the mist that hung heavy in the woods.

     The two decided to start moving, hoping that the sun would burn this mist off.

     As he walked, Paulie kept fidgeting with the bandana, constantly adjusting the wrapping. He couldn’t keep his hands still; in fact, he barely noticed the repeating movement. 

     James noticed, but he chose not to say anything.

     As the day wore on, the fog faded, but there was only an hour of noon sun before a cold rain began to fall. Paulie felt the chill droplets rolling down his back, between his shoulder blades, behind his ears, down the side of his nose, across his neck, and through his fingers to the ground below. His shoes squelched, and his shirt hung limply, drooping, soaked. He was drenched to the bone. Water dripped into his eyes, and it stung as it seeped into the slash on his back. The cloth around his hand was sopping, and he still wound and unwound endlessly, unconsciously, steadily, working to a beat that matched his footsteps, that fit the rhythm inside his head.

     That rhythm pounded, on and on, a ceaseless circle. Both men heard it. It was one word, over and over, in and out, like the great tides of the far-off oceans: _Survive… Survive… Survive…_

     The stream they were walking next to slowly widened, leaving the gentle laughs and murmurs behind and growing to an angry, rumbling growl. The rain washed dirt from the banks into it, turning the water a dirty brown that rushed and raged with a murky passion, moving with a fierce urgency, an impetus that no human could ever dream of matching. 

     The trees seemed to be thinning out ahead. The men pressed on, wondering if the forest was ending and they had finally found civilization.

     But when they reached the edge of the trees, they saw that instead they were on a narrow spit of land between a junction of two streams, not unlike the Point back in Pittsburgh. Both streams were swollen with an influx of water from the downpour, and both rushed with the same urgent furor, a desperation unconquerable.

     Paulie looked around despondently, hopelessly, certain that they were trapped, unable to go anywhere. He could feel the same disheartened misery in his companion. They’d come all this way, and it was all for nothing. Now they had to go back, back to where the stream was narrow and shallow enough to be forded, or else they’d die here.

     Suddenly, James gave a shout, and pointed up the new stream. He broke into a run, and Paulie looked to see where he was going. Then he, too, let out a shout of joy and sprinted along the bank, ignoring the pain in his ankle, until he skidded to a halt next to James. 

     In front of them, a log stretched out, bridging the stream with all the dignity of a king. The fallen giant was old, ageless, with rough, rugged, peeling bark and slippery, wet wood underneath. 

     “Thank God,” James whispered.

     Relief flooded through Paulie’s limbs. They wouldn’t have to backtrack after all.

     That’s how they’d cross the stream.


	4. IV

     Crossing the stream turned out to be more difficult than it looked. 

     James went first. The log was slippery, and he had to go down on all fours at certain points, grasping the trunk with both hands to keep from falling. The tree groaned and sagged under his weight. But he made it, leaping the last few feet to land trembling on the other bank.

     Then it was Paulie’s turn.

     His limbs were shaking, his heart pounding with nervousness, but he still made himself walk forward, out onto the log. He could feel it sinking below him, lower, lower, toward the rushing water below. He could hear the roar of the murky brown creek as it swept under him, hungry and wild, anxious for a meal to come.

     A gust of wind blindsided him, and he nearly lost his balance, grabbing the tree for support. Driving rain stung as it whipped his skin, but he recovered enough to keep going, heart in his throat.

     He was about halfway across when his right foot hit a patch of bare wet wood. It slipped sideways, and his bad left ankle gave out.

     He was sent tumbling off the log towards the tumult below, only just managing to grab the log before hitting the water. His legs were submerged up to the knee, and the wild current dragged at him. He desperately clutched the log, but he could feel his grip loosening. 

     James was yelling something, but the noise from the water obscured the words. His ears were filled with the roar of the furious stream. He saw James get back onto the log to come out and help, and he desperately waved James back. James didn’t stop, however, and the log dipped under his weight. Paulie couldn’t get his hand back onto the log in time. He was dunked in the water, hip deep, and then his hand was ripped away from the log, and the undertow caught him and he was swept away. 

     He surfaced, spitting, trying to gulp in a breath of air, but ending up with a mouthful of water instead. A wave washed over his head, and he gasped and choked as his world turned into a mix of wet murky brown and sharp stinging white.

     There was no up, there was no down, there was only a whirl of wind and air and water. 

     The current grabbed his body and flung him around, ignoring his feeble attempts to swim. He flailed desperately, but to no avail. He was picked up and hurled downstream with the force of a cannonball, smashing sideways into a jagged rock emerging from the tumult. He retched, trying to clear his lungs, but was dunked under before he could snatch another breath. He  couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t stop the water. 

     A rogue wave sent him sideways into the hard-packed earth of the bank, and he was just able to grab a root sticking out into the current. He locked his arms around it, but didn’t have the strength to pull himself out. He hung there, feeling himself weakening by the second, knowing that sooner or later, he’d have to let go. 

     Then James came running along the bank and hauled him out of the water. 

     Paulie collapsed on the bank in a murky mental fog. He was so tired… It would be so easy just to close his eyes…

     He was dimly aware of James shouting something in the background, but he couldn’t tell what it was. It was slightly annoying, that shouting. _Go ‘way_ , he thought. _Let me sleep._

     Suddenly, something forceful slammed into his gut. He gasped in surprise, and the sudden intake of air into his lungs set off a reaction of coughing. He retched again, trying to clear the river water that had settled in him. He sucked in air, cold fresh clean air that burned his lungs.

     He blinked, his head clearing. He was no longer in the stream, lying instead on the bank next to it. His body felt bruised and battered, more so than he was used to. James was kneeling on the ground next to him, concern and fear in his eyes.

     Paulie’s voice rasped in his throat. “Thank… thank you.”

     James grabbed him into a one-armed hug, planting a shaking kiss on Paulie’s forehead. His blue eyes were wet with tears. His voice, wavering and uneven, whispered in Paulie’s ear. “Oh my god, Paulie. I–I thought you were gone… Don’t you ever-– _ever_ –-scare me like that again.”

     Paulie’s answer was muffled by James’s shoulder. “I... have no intention... of repeating that experience.”

     He shivered as the cold air gusted across him, his wet shirt drying in the wind. He was still trembling uncontrollably. 

     It took some time before he was steady enough to walk.


	5. V

     The rain finally stopped about an hour before sunset. The forest thinned, transitioning smoothly to a green, misty scrubland. It was mostly grass, but there were a few bushes scattered across it. 

     The men took shelter under one of these bushes. Paulie was still shivering, and he couldn’t seem to get warm. Next to him, James was a warm, dry, sleeping mass. Paulie scooted closer, cold enough to not care about how things looked.

     Then he paused.

     He looked over at James, lying there so still. A bead of sweat rolled down James’s forehead, across his brow, into his eye. He didn’t move. 

     Slowly, fearfully, Paulie reached out and laid his hand on James’s forehead.

     It was burning up.

     Paulie had a bad suspicion about that. He leaned forward to inspect the burn on James’s lower leg.

     It was an angry red color, oozing a slightly yellow pus.

     Paulie swallowed nervously. He knew exactly what that meant. 

     The burn was infected.

     He and James were stuck out in the open, with nothing to eat, no medical treatment, nothing. And now James’s leg was infected. 

     He looked around for something, anything he could use to wrap the leg with, but there was nothing, not even the bandana he’d been using on his hand. He’d lost it when he’d fallen in the stream.

     He ended up ripping off a piece of his shirt and tying it around James’s leg. 

     There was nothing he could do now.

     The next day dawned dark and cold, but there was no rain. Paulie was still shivering, and the word ‘hypothermia’ was running laps in his brain. He glanced over at James. _It’s too ironic_ , he thought. _One of us has a fever and the other can’t get warm._  

     When James finally woke, he could barely walk. He couldn’t put any weight on his right leg, and Paulie had to help support him.

     It was the world’s worst three-legged race, a race against the creeping claws of death. They staggered along, still following the stream, afraid to leave it lest they lose their way. 

     Around midday, James fell and didn’t have the energy to get up. He had started talking to himself earlier, slipping into a delirious state, hallucinating that he was back in Pittsburgh. He could no longer walk. 

     Paulie was exhausted, also, but some instinct wouldn’t let him stop. He lifted James carefully from the ground and staggered on. 

     He walked on throughout the afternoon, bowed under the weight of his friend’s body over his shoulders. He no longer thought about anything, but was fully focused on the near-impossible task of keeping himself going. 

     One foot in front of the other, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left, right, left, right, over an over as the sun slowly sank below the horizon and the darkness gathered and the wind picked up and his chill grew until he was shivering uncontrollably and his teeth chattered like a squirrel. But eventually that time came where he could carry James no further and he fell to his knees and the burning body rolled off his aching shoulders and his eyes were drooping closed and he knew that if he lay down now, he would never get up again.

     He knelt there, too tired to hope, too tired to pray.

     The darkness was absolute, circling around him like some great net through which no light could seep. His world had narrowed to James next to him and the stream a dozen yards away and the earth below him and the blacker-than-midnight sky above him. He could see it already, he could. They would die here, and no one would find the bodies and their last days would be a mystery forever. Their families, their team would mourn, and maybe others, too, but there would be those who didn’t care and those who faked caring. And Paulie would never get to unload the deep secrets he carried within him, because no one would be there to hear him. He was alone; James, right next to him, was even farther away than the farthest star that the clouds hid from his sight. But it was no matter, it was no consequence; this was the end, and he had no say in the matter. His will was not factored into the equation. 

     And so, because it was set to happen, he would die on this dark and lonely stretch of riverbank in this cruel and cold night.

     His thoughts were interrupted by a noise behind him, a soft noise, but nevertheless a noise the darkness could not fake. He whirled around, forgot he was on his knees, and fell sideways. He ended up lying on his side, staring up at a huge dark muzzle that stretched out of the blackness and snuffled gently at his shirt. Two long legs stretched up to the muscular roan chest that led to the elegantly arching neck and the small dainty head that nuzzled him with a satiny nose. 

     Somewhere in his brain, a long-dormant neuron began to fire. He blinked, and slowly the word ‘horse’ surfaced. Then he saw the bridle, and his brain started to leap.

     Where there are horses with bridles, there will be a stable. And where there is a stable, there will be humans not far away. 

     He scooted out from under the horse, and forced himself to his feet. “Keep James company, please,” he told the roan mare. Then he scrambled up the small embankment and half stumbled, half ran across the pasture.

     Even from afar he could see the dark silhouette of the house, large and reassuring. He could pick out the warm yellow light streaming from a window, and that was his guiding star as he staggered on through the night. The house seemed impossibly far away, but each step covered a thousand miles, and he slowly made progress. Then he was staggering up the front steps of the porch, and his hand somehow found the doorbell, and then his legs gave out and he slid down the wall until he was slumped next to the door, half-conscious.

     The door swung open suddenly, golden light spilling out onto the porch and into the night. A teenage girl peered out, her long brown braid swinging over her shoulder. She glanced down and gasped as she saw him. 

     “Mom?!” she shouted over her shoulder, back into the house. “C’m ‘ere!”

     An older woman with dark blond hair came to the door, while the girl knelt down next to him. “I think it’s one of those missing hockey players they were talking about on the news!” 

     Drained, he raised his head from his knees, cursing the effort that it took for that one simple movement. A man emerged from the house, and he and the woman lifted Paulie like a feather and carried him into the house.

     There was something important he had meant to say, but he couldn’t remember what it was…

     Oh. yeah.

     “Down by the creek…” he mumbled.

     “What’s down by the creek?” the girl asked. 

     "James…” He blinked wearily. “You might want to call an ambulance.”

     Then he finally succumbed to the blackness around him.


	6. VI

     He woke up when someone propped him upright and placed a warm mug in his hand. His nose twitched, once, enough to determine the scent of the liquid. Then, without even opening his eyes, he proceeded to gulp the entire mug of coffee, not even pausing when it scalded his throat on the way down. 

     He was then lowered back down into a soft nest of heavenly comfort. 

     When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a sofa in front of a blazing fire, wrapped in blankets and no longer shivering. A sheepdog lay by the fire, staring at him warily, but the tortoiseshell cat was bold, stepping daintily over the sofa’s arm to settle down next to his head.

     The rumbling purr echoed in his ear, and the whiskers tickled his face.

     A little girl wandered into the room, clutching a small teddy bear and staring at him with wide eyes, and the teenage girl sat in an armchair near the head of the couch, holding the empty mug of coffee that he’d just finished. 

     “Where’s Jamie?” he asked in a raspy voice.

     From another room, a voice replied, “Da boys’re dahn at da crick gettin’ ‘em.”

     “They’ll be up soon,” the girl said.

     “Oh,”he mumbled, and then passed out again.

     From that point on, he did not remember actions or dialogue, only still pictures that stuck out from the fog of darkness that clouded his mind. 

     A man and a teenage boy, older than the girl, carrying James between them. An ambulance arriving, loading them up. The long ride to the hospital. The stretchers, being wheeled into the hospital. The white walls stretching out down the long hallway.

     After that, he no longer remembered anything besides a dark blur that slowly faded to a quiet, peaceful, painless black.

 

     He woke suddenly, fully aware of his surroundings for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. He couldn’t tell what had woken him. The hospital room was dark, with the blinds drawn on the windows. The door, however, was open a crack, and a slow light trickled in through that tiny gap, accompanied by snatches of conversation. 

     “… both were dehydrated…”

     “… malnourishment

     “… Neal?…”

     “… broken radius, ulna… clean break…”

     “… 2nd degree burn…”

     “… infection seems to be going down…”

     “… minor bruising and scrapes…”

     “… Martin?…”

     “… broken hand… metacarpal… through the skin…”

     “… been set…”

     “… sprained ankle…”

     “… minor cuts and bruises…”

     “… wait and see…”

     The door quietly swung all the way shut, pulled closed by one of the people outside. 

     He closed his eyes briefly, but a familiar snore alerted him to the presence of someone else in the room.

     Next to his bed was another, occupied only by a nest of black hair and a hand sticking off of the bed, out from under a white sheet that had somehow managed to twine itself around the person. The hand was one that Paulie knew well, one he couldn’t help but recognize. 

     Another snore rumbled around the room.

     Paulie smiled. Then he reached out and took James’s limp hand in his own bandaged one.

     James’s head slowly emerged from the sheet, eyes still bleary with sleep. When he saw it was only Paulie, he gave a small, tired grin and retreated back into the nest he’d made. 

     But his hand remained outstretched, bridging the gap between the beds. 

     Paulie fell asleep like that, holding James’s hand in his. He wasn’t so far gone, though, that when James whispered, “Love you,” he couldn’t whisper back, “Love you too.”

     To this day, both insist those words were murmured in a daze of painkillers. And to this day, both know with utter certainty that the other is lying–and so are they.


	7. VII

     The sun shines down on the three rivers, glinting off them like starlight off the scales of a silver fish. The warm air wafts over the city, and the few white clouds that spread their softness across the sky drift along lazily, white marshmallows scattered across blue frosting.

     On a small street in a picturesque suburb, one man is standing outside the front door to a house while another sits on the front step. They are both dressed in jeans, hoodies, and t-shirts, although the standing man wears a cap at a jaunty angle, while the sitting man’s head is simply covered by brass hair. Both bear the signs of recent injuries: a cast, a sling, a discarded pair of crutches, a wrapped hand. 

     “C’mon,  Paulie!” the standing man insists. 

     Paulie looks up. “I’ve already said no, James. I’m not changing my mind.”

     “But it’ll be fun!”

     Paulie sighs.”You and I have very different ideas about fun.” 

     James grins. “You can’t back out now, Paulie. You already said yes.”

     “I did not!”

     “Yes you did!”

     “When?”

     “In the woods.”

     Paulie shakes his head in exasperation. “I never agreed to this crazy scheme of yours.”

     “But you didn’t say no…”

     “Not gettin a no does not mean a yes! I am not going to every single restaurant in Pittsburgh with you!”

     “Why not?”

     “Because that’s too much food, and we have diets! We have to eat right so that once we’re healed, we’ll be ready to play again.”

     James visibly deflates. “But can we at least go out to eat tonight?”

     Paulie looks at him, just looks at him, and then thinks, _what the hell. I’ll make him happy_. “Yeah, okay, tonight.”

     “Great!… um, is there anywhere in particular you want to go?”

     “You suggested this, you decide.”

     Paulie regrets saying that the moment the sly grin crosses James’s face. “Okay, I got somewhere. Ready?”

     “What, now? Shouldn’t we change?”

     “Not necessary where we’re going.”

     “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Paulie mutters, as James grabs his uninjured hand and drags him out to the taxi that’s just pulled up. Neither of them can drive right now, what with James’s arm and Paulie’s hand, but the backseat of a taxi is certainly more convenient for other things. 

     Paulie’s feeling good tonight, and that holds true the whole night, so much so that he doesn’t even squirm a little when James presses a soft kiss on the side of his face. They’ve been through so much together, now, that the feelings toward James that he used to fear don’t seem like a problem anymore. 

     After all, there are worse feelings to have.

     The two of them aren’t well enough to play now, but they will heal, and then they’ll play again, and play successfully. The years will wear on, and they will stay close, and they will get rings together, rings from the engagement, rings from the wedding, and rings from the Cup that they'll win side by side. And yes, there will be nightmares, of drowning and long nights alone in the dark and a blue pick-up truck that took the curve too fast and sent them off the edge of the road, but there will always be someone to share them with, someone who cares about them, someone who knows what really happened, someone who _understands_.

     The bonds formed when you share a life are strong, and can weather many storms. But the bonds formed when you cheat death with someone are immortal, and even the strongest storms cannot tear them apart.

     So… Paulie… James…

     See you in twenty years?


	8. VIII

     Back in the woods, the high noon sun shines down on the new leaves, casting dappled green shadows across the rich, dark loam below. Budding branches, covered with the light lime of a spring come, tickle each other gently, and the long tendrils of vines wave lazily in the warm wind. A timid crocus raises its head, daring to bear its velvet violet petals. 

     Sunlight glimmers off the rippling surface of a babbling brook nearby. The stream laughs in a singsong voice that twines around the trees and winds across the moist earth. Water splashes up on moss covered rocks, lapping and licking at the damp grass overhanging the banks. The creek is nearly overflowing with frigid water from the snowmelt just upstream. A small fish darts out from a shaded pool, the bright sun glinting off its scales like a spotlight on a diamond ring. Up in the trees, a squirrel chatters, scolding the gently rustling leaves. A quiet background melody of birdsong floats softly through the dappled sunlight, and a warm spring breeze envelopes the peaceful woodland.

     At a place where two streams meet, a fallen log bridges one with all the dignity of a sleeping giant. Its bark is rough, peeling away from the slippery, shiny wood below. Branches large and small still poke out of the thick trunk, and its tangled roots still raise trembling tendrils toward the wide blue sky. 

     If you look carefully, perhaps you can spot the small tattered scrap of cloth caught and held firm by the widespread branches. Sometimes, when the wind blows hard, it flutters and flaps like a flag. Weather and wear and a year gone by have left it threadbare, faded, caked with dirt, but its true color still shows through. It is all that is left of a red bandana, the only thing still there to remind the woodlands of the men who passed through. They themselves have gone on, their tracks have been blown over, their scent has faded… 

     But the red cloth remains.


End file.
